


This is not a ghost story

by Wallyallens



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Miranda, Thomas Lives!AU, Thomas is Alive AU, and John Silver is the voice of reason so you know they're fucked, in which a bunch of idiots talk to each other without ever really saying anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallyallens/pseuds/Wallyallens
Summary: Captain Flint see's a ghost, except its not a ghost, and finds out that Thomas Hamilton never truly died in Bedlam. The English have brought his once-love to Nassau, and Flint is determined to save him. Thomas lives!AU.





	1. This is not a ghost story

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing black sails, feedback appreciated!

This is not a ghost story.

But that it was it felt like at first glance, Flint’s feet stuck to the deck as if his soles were nailed to the wooden boards, muscles freezing, heart pausing, breath sucked in sharply then held, as trapped as the rest of him was. It was a bucket of ice over his head. Before, the battle had been a blaze around him and his body so in synch with violence after all these years that he came truly alive in those moments, moving without thought and feeling the hum of gunfire match his own beating heart, the roar of canons and men shouting in the chaos momentarily louder than the thoughts that constantly screamed inside his own mind.

Now, there was silence.

If battle was all of his senses charged, an exposed nerve through which Flint felt everything so deeply and _fully_ , the world slammed into him, then that moment was a dream. It felt unreal – it _couldn’t_ be real. For it to be real surely meant the end of him. And unable to take the sight which met his hollowed eyes, Flint stopped. Shouting seceded to silence; to static, and he froze, a marionette with cut strings, and yet he did not fall, could not blink, did not move a muscle for some insane fear that what lay ahead of him was just a mirage, a passing moment of light and memory refracting to torture him with the image of his greatest regret.

Because standing in front of him was a dead man, the man he had loved with his entire soul, a man whose face was carved into Flint’s beating heart. The man who had been taken from him and left his world in shades of grey and bloodshed, and in whose name, as Silver had so aptly put it, this entire war was being fought.

“Thomas?”

The name left him in a breath, a sigh of relief mixed simultaneously with a moan of pain, and suddenly the world snapped into focus once more.

Thankfully, the shouting had stopped, the effect of waking up not so jarring as it should have been, fore surely this was a dream and Flint had been knocked unconscious in the fight. Thomas could not be there. It was impossible. But he blinked, and Thomas remained, standing on the deck of the English ship pulled alongside them, pale as a ghost among the uniformed soldiers. And Flint _felt_ haunted, unsure whether to believe his own senses or if they had finally failed him as his mind snapped and unwound, the grief of losing both of the Hamilton’s and the pressure of a war warping his senses to see what was not there, the ghost of his lost love.

“Captain,” a voice he identified as Billy spoke at his side, making Flint turn his gaze for the first time away from the apparition. The young man was above him, face drawn in and tight with worry, something in those dark eyes flicking over Flint’s face as if assessing him. “What should we do? They just . . . stopped fighting. Their ship could have blown us out of the water and they _haven’t_. What do you want us to do?”

And so Flint looked back, finding Billy’s words to be true. The English Warship could have obliterated them at this distance, but its guns were cold, its soldiers standing on the deck, just waiting. In the middle of them stood Thomas, unblinking, unsmiling; with no trace of love in his eyes. That made Flint’s head tighten in his chest, and even as he tried to speak, all words fled him, lips dry and throat useless against the devouring of his own eyes across Thomas’ face.

“I . . .”

He must have looked broken enough for someone else to give the order.

Before he knew what was happening, _the Walrus_ was moving away, sails pulled gaunt and anxious shouts rising up amongst the crew as they turned tail and ran. They _never_ ran. That was his own rule. But the English did not shoot, made no attempt to stop them or fight; made not a single sound as they fled that place. They only watched silently, knowing the damage was already done, and the war was won not with a bullet, but with a glance.

By learning his true name, the English had learnt Flint’s greatest weakness in this world, and so gained their greatest weapon. Because true as the stars above charted a course, sure as the sun would rise in the east, as certain as man’s inherent nature to follow power: James Flint would always be James McGraw, and every version of him would be in love with Thomas Hamilton.

The rest was easy.

It might have been minutes or hours before the ship became a dot on the horizon and he could no longer see Thomas, for time stretched endlessly in front of Flint as he locked gazes with his soulmate, never moving until darkness swallowed the place where Thomas had been, and with the rocking motion of the waves beneath his feet, the world snapped back into focus. Somehow, Flint had made it to the side of the ship and was clenching one of Silver’s ropes so tightly his knuckles were white, his skin cold from the sea breeze and limbs stiff, telling him he had been standing there entranced for some time.

As if waking after a long sleep, he blinked, slowly turning on the spot and hoping his now-trembling legs would not give out on him. He saw instantly the crew moving around him, sparing him quick glances and looks from the corner of their eyes, the lingering question there in how they moved around him as if they could not see him, both awed and afraid to ask what had happened to make their fearsome captain freeze. He saw Billy at the wheel, a head and shoulders above the rest, but even the man who was always first in line to question Fint’s actions kept his head held bashfully low, for once moved to silence.

It was only when he turned fully around that a pair of startling blue eyes met his own, the only ones not afraid to do so, but then again, John Silver was never the type to hold back what he thought. Silver sat atop a barrel, steady as the sailor’s perfect sea, and did not flinch away at the sight of him. For that, Flint was eternally grateful.

“Captain,” Silver said gently, testing the waters. It seemed he had chosen to sit there and wait for Flint to return to them, for his words sounded rehearsed and thought out, eyes flicking to the listening crew then back to Flint to communicate with a look that they needed to move somewhere private. “We have much to discuss. This new tactic of the English . . . it seems to be most efficient, and we must decide how best to face it together. I suggest we retire to your cabin to do so.”

The urgency was there in his tone, matched with the intensity of his eyes and that glimmer of worry thinly veiled in the need to hide Flint’s breakdown from the crew, for surely John had worked out who the figure on the other ship was from Flint’s reaction alone. For whatever else he was, John Silver was clever and quick as a whip, with an uncanny ability to read people without them needing to tell him a thing, or to reveal anything about himself in turn.

Those eyes saw the ghost of Thomas Hamilton in Flint’s every movement, and Flint knew it from his words, finding himself nodding along dumbly, surprised he could think or feel at all.

“Of course,” he replied, voice coming out hoarse and raspy in his throat. “They . . . we have much to discuss. To . . . decide.”

His head had already left his body as his stiff legs carried him to his cabin, puzzling out a thousand different scenarios that led to Thomas being there; to reasons Thomas had not reacted to his presence, to formulating plans with every heartbeat to save Thomas from the clutches of the English. _Thomas, Thomas, Thomas_ . . . the name rang over and over in his head like a bell, like a prayer. His body knew the sight, but his mind was only now catching up, the dull thud of Silver’s leg following him down into the darkness, until Flint half-collapsed, palms against his desk.

His first words once inside were sure and clear: “We have to save him.”

Silver neither argued nor denied that point, closing the door softly behind him to ask instead, “That’s him? Thomas Hamilton? _The_ Thomas, the one who started all of this . . . _Your_ Thomas?”

Flint shuddered at the words, thankful he had not been immediately told he was crazy or that it was impossible, but the last part sent a flood of memories through him. The ghost of Thomas Hamilton once again appeared to step through Flint, soaking into his body itself: he saw Thomas for the first time on a bright day in London, then the first smile they shared; he saw Thomas asking for his help in saving Nassau; then Flint heard his voice, something half-remembered, speaking low the words from the very red book he held so dear now, just a few paces away resting on the bookshelf.

A smile appeared almost of its own accord, tugging his lip begrudgingly upwards, eyes unfocused as the memories played out – then, finally, the most strongly of all – Flint recalled the pressure of Thomas’ lips against his smiling ones, of the warmth of them that seemed to heat his very bones, of the taste of him, the smell, the touch.

Once again, Flint turned to face John Silver, and this time managed to hold his gaze despite the fresh tears that welled up in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said, nodding faintly. “That’s him. My - my Thomas.”

“Captain?” Silver watched him carefully for a moment, then a small smile to match Flint’s own appeared on his face, drawn with fondness and a genuine care that only added to Flint’s inability to breathe. “In that case, I am so very glad he has come back to you. _Truly_. But how – you said he was dead.”

“I thought he was,” Flint replied, recalling that dreadful day all too clearly as well. “They told us he had been taken to an Asylum when news of our . . . _affair_ broke, and I learned not long after that he had – they said he had taken his own life in that awful place.” His voice cracked and broke as he said the words, even though he knew it now to be a lie. In Flint’s heart, it still struck like a stone, and he had to look away and swipe a hand over his eyes. Flint looked back up in striking desperation, “But he was _there_ . . . you saw him too? This is not just an illusion, a dream?”

Face suddenly drawn in concern again, Silver crossed the space with ease, forgetting himself as he placed a hand on Flint’s shoulder and squeezing. “He was as real as I am now, I promise you that. I saw him. This is no dream, captain, no falsehood . . . this is a good thing, right? Thomas is back.”

“Yes,” Flint replied, but it felt like a lie. A churning pit of grief and disbelief and a drawing realisation that something was very wrong about this picture opening up inside of him, Flint looked up at Silver and forced himself to nod. “It is. Of course it is . . .”

Silver smelt the lie, “What’s wrong?”

“You’re right – he should be dead, and suddenly he is here. This isn’t right,” he clenched his fists, “The English have to have a point to this, or why bring him here at all? They’ve done something to him. Something they know will hurt me.”

“Isn’t his presence enough to do that?”

“Evidently,” Flint said. Cursing himself for losing his head upon seeing Thomas instead of gathering information, he tried to picture the scene from that day clearly in his mind, but found all he could grasp in his memory was Thomas’ face. “But then why didn’t they use my fault today? They could have killed us all, but they _didn’t_. This is . . . this feels _personal_ , Silver. This is something more.”

“Then we will find out what that is,” Silver promised calmly, the hand on Flint’s shoulder falling to his side again. “I promise you that. We will find out what is going on, how Thomas is alive – and _then we will save him_.”

For the first time since he saw Thomas back from the dead, Flint felt tears warm his cheeks and slip past his eyes, allowing himself to cry. It didn’t feel like a weakness. He had nothing to hide from Silver, not anymore, nothing to hold back – especially not his trust. And still the other man remained a constant ally, even with nothing to gain here.

But when he promised to save Thomas, Flint believed him. And knowing the power they wielded; what they had and could accomplish together? It felt almost like hope, the thing stirring inside of Captain Flint’s chest, so he looked back with gratitude shining in tear-stained eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Silver replied breathily, some of his old charm returned in a crooked smile. “I don’t imagine it will be easy, but then again nothing we do is. Whatever happens – I’m with you. You can thank me when Thomas is standing here, too.”

Just for a moment, Flint allowed himself to believe that could be true, and for the first time in many, many years, the future didn’t seem like such a bad place.

*

“I don’t want to do this,” Flint argued, the fact that he was pouting like a child doing nothing to dull the keen flame in his eyes, the dangerous glint that had only increased tenfold in the past day since he had seen Thomas again. If anything, it had made him even more determined to defeat the English, because now he had something to fight to keep.

“You have to,” Silver said, as he had done several times already. There was a resigned ring to his tone. “It’s the only way to keep him safe, remember that. And _fuck_ what Teach has to say about it, or anyone else for that matter - since when do you give a shining shit what other people think?”

Flint tilted his head in agreement. Silver might have a point there, but the edge of doubt still knawed at his insides as they boarded Rackham’s ship, there to meet their Pirate Council. It was still a new thing, a fragile one; and he could very well shatter it in the next few minutes, leaving him feeling distinctly as if he were at the edge of a very high cliff.

“Since they could kill him if they don’t agree with me,” Flint admitted quietly enough that only the man at his side could hear. “I won’t watch Thomas die again. I _can’t_.”

“You won’t have to,” Silver replied. “Just be _Captain Flint_ , and no one in that room will dare stand against you. This war, no matter what else, it was _yours_ first. What you told me – you made the myth of yourself _for_ Mr. Hamilton, to finish what he started – use it now to save him. Doesn’t that strike you as being right?”

Flint had no time to reply before they crossed the threshold to the other captain’s cabin, finding a table surrounded by their peers. Heads turned to look at their entrance, the usual mixture of trepidation, vague annoyance, and a half-hidden reverence; the tale he had spun of a pirate who collected no treasure but the blood of his enemies had worked in that respect. In these waters, _Flint_ was synonymous with _fear_. That was good, for he would need that fear today to keep these men and women, each deadly in their own respect, in line.

But today, alongside the usual looks, Flint noticed something different in the faces of the people around him. It was the same glint in the eyes of the people of London after his affair had been exposed, the lingering gossip and whispers of men who had learned something that could be manipulated to their own advantage. Wherever you went in the world, people would use others weaknesses to their own gain. Apparently, somehow, Teach and Rackham and Bonny and Madi had already heard of how he faltered facing the British, and now he had something to prove to them.

“It seems there is no need to explain why I gathered you here,” he said bluntly, pausing in front of them all. Flint stared each of them down, refusing to blink first in each instant, until the whole room was listening aptly to his every word. “The British have . . . gained intelligence. Knowledge about me, about my life back in England before I came here; things they can use to their advantage in this coming war. I am here to tell you that they will not win, that I am still the captain who will tear down every ship England puts in front of me-”

“Then what the fuck happened yesterday?” Anne Bonny cut in, to-the-point as blunt as ever. Her unflinching honesty and complete lack of a verbal filter was both endearing and at times, testing. Right now, it made Flint’s jaw clench.

“They-” In anger and sorrow, Flint broke off, forcing himself to suck in a breath and get bloody on with it. “They have in their possession someone very dear to me. Seeing him yesterday struck me, I do not deny that, but I have every intention of saving him from them and then cutting England’s _heart out_ for ever thinking to use him that way in the first place-” In speaking, he had rose to a quiet, burning rage, sitting out the words as if they were venom on his tongue and shaking with the effort of it; Flint’s glazed over eyes cleared, and saw the expressions of shock reflected back at him. “I will not only hurt England for this. I will _destroy_ them. I will _obliterate_ everything they hold dear and when I hold her by the throat, when she _begs_ for mercy - then – _only_ then – will I be satisfied.”

Everyone in that room had seen Flint angry before. It was more his state of being than an emotion, and all had seen him raving and ranting in fits of incompressible rage, but never like this. Before there had always been the fire, the anger – but never before had they seen the _heart_ behind it. He saw this in their reactions, in the way Madi took half a step away in caution, Bonny’s face twisted into an expression of complete understanding, and Teach straightened his spine, a glimmer of what could be respect appearing in his dark eyes. Rackham, true to nature, just looked vaguely confused.

Jack and Anne went hand in hand with unsubtly; he crossed his arms and asked. “Who is this man England has hostage? Who is he to you?”

“Does it matter?” Silver finally spoke, stepping forward from Flint’s heels to his side, and the older man’s face twisted in gratitude. He finally knew where he and Silver stood, and the other man had his back completely. It was a strange sensation after all these years of trusting very few. Curly hair moved to block him almost, Silver putting himself between Flint and the questions it was too hard to answer and standing his ground, “Without Flint, none of this holds the same weight. It’s _him_ they fear. He _is_ the war. We are going to save this hostage, it doesn’t fucking _matter_ who he is, and you can either help or stay out of our way.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Flint growled, taking a step back into the foreground of the action, right at Silver’s side. His eyes flicked imperceptibly to the other man, who nodded once, and Flint let loose his myth, walking towards Rackham with burning eyes. “That from now on, anyone who so much as fires a shot at an English ship without my say-so is an enemy to this war. That until he is safe, no one is to take an English ship, no one is to kill a man he cannot indentify, and no ship on these waters passes without _my_ permission. Because if you cause the death of my friend, no matter what excuses you may give, then what I do to England will be nothing compared to what I do to _you_. Do you understand?”

Jack’s mouth gaped open, but it was not Anne but Teach who moved to intercept, pushing Jack aside to face off with Flint himself. The younger man was moved with barely a noise of indignation, and then there were a pair of eyes as dark with grief as his own in front of Flint, and this time, Blackbeard did not blink.

“Men die in wars,” Blackbeard said calmly, but his tone was ice. “Men will die in this war – people already have. _Charles_ . . . already has. You can stand there and make all the self-righteous fucking threats you like but it won’t make a blind bit o’ difference. As soon as England had him, your friend was as good as dead. I will not waste the chance we have here – not after what was sacrificed for it – so you can delude yourself into think he can be saved.”

Flint did not move, leering into the challenge, “This isn’t your _fucking_ war, Teach. It’s mine.”

“- It became my war the minute you let Charles Vane hang for you!”

A heavy hand landed on Flint’s shoulder and shoved in anger, a meaty finger jabbing at his collar bone with accusation. He staggered back a foot, then rose again in turn, moving unrelentlessly towards Blackbeard, whose hand was on his sword. Flint didn’t bother reaching for a weapon. With what was at stake – for Thomas – he could have torn Teach apart with his bare hands.

“Charles Vane knew what he was dying for! He _chose_ to, for this war – but there would be no war without Thomas!” Flint was aware he was shouting, could see the flecks of spit from his own mouth hitting Teach’s face, hands curled up around the other man’s collar. “ _He_ started this, _he_ set this into motion, this war has always been for him! But he didn’t have a choice in becoming a martyr. They **took** him from me, and I’ll be damned before I let them do it again.”

Flint released Teach’s collar with such violence the other man fell back into the table but maintained his footing, but before he could counter, Flint had checked his emotions and turned away, stalking towards the door and catching a glimpse of Silver’s hardened, worried face as he passed. Gasping in a deep breath in a way no one would hear, Flint inhaled and exhaled three times, facing the exit but refusing to leave, with no fear of turning his back on armed killers. Silver was there, and he was _Captain_ fucking _Flint_ \- none of them could touch him.

Knowing exactly what to do, his Quartermaster spoke for him, staring down the row of people as Flint had minutes before. There was a delicate ferocity in Silver’s tone, ever the man with all the words and all the danger. “I think you all might be mistaken into thinking this was a negotiation. It is not.”

“This is a council, Mister Silver,” Madi replied, and Flint could hear the calmness in her tone, even with his turned back. She knew enough to show caution of him, of his volatile nature, but apparently had no such qualms or fears about speaking against Silver. “I thought the intention here was to work as one, for a common cause, not for one man to stand above others and give orders. Every decision in this war was supposed to be an effort of _all_ of us – this should be a decision, not an order.”

“This . . . this is different, Madi. If this were about the war, then yes, the council would have a say,” Silver replied, moving towards her with those pleading, planning eyes of his. “But this is about far more than just a war, I’m afraid. Some things are just more important. Family. Friendship. _Love_.” Flint looked up sharply back at them, but Silver’s back was turned to him, facing down the council. He wanted to speak up, but after all this time, had learned that the best thing to do with Silver was to _let him talk_ – he had yet to fail them when he used his words as weapons. “The moment we stop fighting for these things is the moment this war is truly lost – because if we do not fight for something, where is the victory? Where is the _cause_? If it were your mother they had, we would do everything in our power to save her. We must do the same now.”

“What you ask . . . you mean for us not to fight?”

“No,” Silver shook his head. “ _Never_. We have not abandoned the war, we have come much too far for that – but to attack now would cost the life of an innocent man. We’re not asking you to give up, only to be given time – time enough to save him. _Please_. Can you do that for me?”

Flint almost smiled, glad he had held his tongue. Without Silver’s quick thinking and quicker words, he doubted they would have gotten this far. His own rash rage was too abrasive to get the result they needed, but just maybe, Silver may still be able to secure them an opportunity to save Thomas.

As he turned fully back to face the council, something of the desperation he felt must have shown on his face, for Madi’s eyes flicked up to him, then back to Silver. Then, miraculously, she nodded.

“I will help you, if I can,” she said loudly, making a point of declaring her loyalty in front of the others. “Enough people have died for this war. If we can save this man, I think we will have done a good thing.”

Silver nodded gratefully, but it was Flint who spoke up. “ _Thank you_.”

“An’ us,” Anne Bonny declared, nodding to Jack, who looked vaguely annoyed before she fixed him with a look, and he too nodded, already looking exhausted at the prospect and affirming, “Oh, alright. I suppose they may be something to be gained by striking a blow at the British to _save_ a life for once.”

Flint nodded at them too, not trusting himself to speak anymore – and all eyes turned to Teach.

“I already lost the best man I ever knew for this fucking fight,” Blackbeard replied, but it came from a place of grief; Flint could hear it in his tone. “I won’t risk any of my crew for a suicide mission. Do what you have to, Flint, I’ll stay away. But do it quick – you have a week.”

*

“Now what do we do?” Flint asked later, standing back aboard the Walrus.

They were in his office: him, Silver, Billy and Madi, whose forces had joined their crew that afternoon to help. Rackham’s ship was following, waiting for a plan. For now, they were a war-council of four, and only one of which would even look him in the eyes for more than a second or two.

But then again, why did he need anyone else when he had Silver?

“We find them, first,” Silver replied evenly. At the way Flint’s face dropped, he held up a quick hand – and half a smirk. “Don’t worry, I remembered the name of the ship when you were distracted. The _Siren’s Song_. We’ll moor at Nassau and see if any of the other ships have seen her in the past day.”

“And then?” Madi asked, looking up. “Do you intend to take her?”

“No . . . they’re planning an ambush, they know we’ll attack. It’s the only reason they have Thomas; to provoke me,” Flint replied with a shake of his head. He looked at her steadily, thinking aloud, “But now we know it’s a trap we can avoid it. It’s me they want, so it’s the Walrus they’re waiting for – but we have two ships and three crews, I vote we attack at once. I will go on another ship and get aboard – we don’t need to take her, only to get to Thomas.”

“This is a rescue mission, not a prize,” Silver said to back him up. He turned to Billy, “Get out there and start talking among the crew, they’ll need to be persuaded. Tell them the man we’re rescuing will have information to lead to much greater prizes and an advantage against England.”

Billy didn’t blink, “Is that true?”

“Does it fucking matter?” Silver argued, “It’s happening either way, so they may as well have hope while they’re dying under English fire. _Go_.”

With a look of anger, Billy slouched off, slamming the door shut behind him. He didn’t like lying to the men _or_ helping Flint, so this must have been a real nightmare for him, the captain thought as he watched him go. He wondered faintly where along the line Billy had started to hate him. In the end, it didn’t matter, as long as he did his job.

“I will do the same,” Madi said, catching his attention once more. “But I will not lie to my men. I will tell them instead that some things are worth fighting for, and their value goes beyond words.”

Flint looked up sharply, seeing the conviction in her eyes, and nodded once. She returned the gesture, looking every bit a queen, sweeping from the room regally, and then it was just him and Silver again.

“What are you going to do once you’re onboard?” Silver asked, when the quiet had settled. He was watching Flint, who knew it, and couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I know there’s no point trying to convince you to hold back, despite the fact that you’re the one they really want dead. So when you are there – what are you going to do once you reach him?”

 _Him_. Silver didn’t have to say the name anymore; they both knew who he was talking about.

“I’m going to talk to Thomas,” Flint replied after a pause, finally looking up again. There was no judgement in Silver’s eyes, only concern, and that was even more worrying. “I’m going to speak to him, and find out what happened, and then I’m going to _save_ him.”

Silver nodded, but there was something wary in his dark eyes, flickering just below the surface.

“What is it?” Flint demanded, noticing.

“Nothing,” Silver shook his head, but even that was a lie. He managed a full ten second under Flint’s resulting glare before throwing up his hands and caving. “It’s just . . . it’s like you said. They brought Thomas here for a reason, and I just feel like we’re missing something. I’m _scared_ for you.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s not that simple,” Silver replied, “You’re the captain. You hold this war together, that much we claimed today is true. And I don’t want you to die, truly. Is there no way I can convince you to let somebody else collect Hamilton?”

“No, no,” Flint shook his head. He leaned against his desk, palms flat against the wood, and his eyes flicked up towards his friend. “I have to go, it has to be me. I owe him that much.”

“You owe the world nothing,” Silver replied, no trace of doubt in his voice. “You never have. If you’re doing this to prove a point . . . _don’t_. England may have taken him from you-”

“They took much more than that! They took my life, my honour, my home – Miranda is _dead_ because of England. She’s not coming back. Thomas . . . it may have all started with him, but it’s more than that now.”

“Then don’t let them take your life, too,” Silver added urgently, grabbing Flint’s arm so he could not look away. Sometimes, Flint still hated the other man. Especially when Silver’s blue eyes cut through him like glass and saw straight into his soul, through his mask of Captain Flint, and he found he had nowhere left to hide. It was true: in a lot of ways, he was so hell-bent on saving Thomas because it felt like by doing this, he could get back everything he lost; and that such a strike against England would mean more because of the past he was reclaiming. It was no longer the chess-game war of a meticulous captain, but _him_ , James McGraw, fighting for everything he lost.

Flint said nothing. He didn’t know if there was anything _to_ say.

After a moment, Silver bowed his head in resignation, a low hum sounding from the back of his throat. The hand dropped, burning with absence, and Flint found himself feeling desperately alone as the soft thumping of metal against wood sounded the departure of his friend. The two sides of his personality fought for a moment: one hoping against sense that Thomas would still love him and everything could go back to the way it once was, but the other half, the captain in him who had been in Nassau for too long and thought of the men as _his_ , who knew that against all odds, he did have friends there; people he could not so simply leave – that half was terrified of things changing yet again, and the rug being pulled from underneath his feet. Thomas being alive was everything he had ever wanted. But – his life was not the same as it had been when they were in love; he was not that man anymore.

The crew needed him, the war needed him, and he didn’t know if he could _feel_ anything aside from in battle anymore. Feeling was foreign, actively being vulnerable around anyone was a weakness he had not afforded himself in years; Thomas was his heart, but his soul was Nassau. He cared about her future. Flint wanted his peace one day, wished for the end of the war, but a part of him wondered if there was such a thing – war _was_ , it never ended, not truly. It was carried in the hearts of every soldier.

For a moment, Flint wanted to call Silver back.

He didn’t.

*

Amidst the chaos as _the Walrus_ slammed the English _Siren’s Song_ , nobody noticed the dark figure sneaking below-decks as the fighting reached its peak on the ships above. Flint walked, never breaking a sweat, and headed methodically for the cabin at the heart of the English ship. He found a door with a heavy iron bolt, which he wrenched free before kicking the door open.

The cabin was dark, without any windows, the wooden walls like a box with no escape but the single door Flint had entered from – the one with the bolt on the outside. It was a prison. It may have had a bed and books and a small desk in the corner, but a prison was a prison, regardless of its furnishing. The jailer and the jailed both knew it, and it was the knowledge that they were not free despite their comfort that was truly torture; the fact they had enough to live by made no difference without also having a door.

Flint saw this in an instant as he crossed the threshold, leaving the door banging against its hinges with the force he slammed it open with, never wanting to see it shut again. Despite his quick assessment, most of his attention went immediately to the figure sitting on the bed, who was quite nonplussed; it seemed, by the sounds of the fighting still raging overhead. It was Thomas, his thin frame standing out more starkly in the simple white shirt he was wearing and that reminding Flint so much of their brief time together in London that it hurt; Thomas’ collarbones protruded from beneath the shirt painfully, his cheeks were sunken and hollow, his eyes dead and listless. Across his exposed skin was a faint clouding of barely-healed bruising, and white stripes of scars jutted out from beneath the shirt – Flint wanted to see more, to know if Thomas was hurt and what was done to him, but remained transfixed on his former lover’s face before anything else. More a ghost than ever, Thomas’ eyes flicked to Flint with apprehension, although he made no move to stand or speak.

At the sight, Flint stopped dead. He knew time was not on their side, and he had to get Thomas out quickly – but he froze, not knowing what to do. All he knew was that he didn’t want to force Thomas to come with him and cause his love more pain.

After the shallow gasp at the state of the other man left him, Flint found his voice enough to choke out the name, “Thomas.”

“Lieutenant,” Thomas replied. His tone was even as he nodded in courtesy. The pale man didn’t seem stressed or affected in the slightest, something detached but also curious about him, head tilting to one side as he looked over and added, “Although that is not true anymore, is it? You’re a pirate now. Captain Flint, I hear they call you.”

“They do,” Flint nodded, voice strangely hoarse, “I’ve gotten quite used to the name . . . the man is another matter. I became him to avenge you-”

To his surprise, Thomas let out a high, haughty laugh at that. He laughed, and it turned his lip cruelly into a hook, his eyes gaining a malicious tint. Finally, he stood. He did not shake or cower, but stood and held Flint’s eye, something most men could not do these days. Thomas shook his head, still laughing, before speaking with an angry tone.

“ _Avenge me_? Did you even think to try and save me first?”

“I wanted to!” Flint shouted; it was not an angry noise but a desperate one, pacing towards Thomas with arms outstretched in peace. He stopped instantly when the other man flinched away, imploring, “Thomas, you know – you know how much you meant to me. But I couldn’t fight all of England, not alone-”

Thomas cut him off coldly, “You seem to be doing so now.”              

“ _Flint_ is doing so now. I was not him, not yet,” Flint shook his head, feeling the prick and warmth of tears in his eyes. “The first thing I wanted to do was rescue you, but I had to think about Miranda, too. She told me what you had made her promise . . . we ran. I’m sorry, but we ran. I didn’t see another way. That’s why – that’s why I came here, to Nassau: to _honour_ you. To finish what you started so it wasn’t for nothing.”

“It _was_ for nothing! Piracy still runs rampant in Nassau – with _you_ leading the charge! There is no order, no _honour_ , no decency – I wanted to save her, to bring her back into the fold, where law could return and she could be safe. You-” Thomas had listed the things off on his hands as he spoke, eyes angrily flashing as he got closer to Flint, who was standing, mouth agape, shocked at what Thomas was saying. “You turned your coat, _Flint_. You betrayed me; you do not honour me by creating the opposite of the world we dreamed of.”

“Nassau is a good place! It may not abide by the law as you know it, but it self-governs with good, honest people who only want to be free from England.”

“We _are_ English. We were working for England!”

“England was broken, we both knew that-”

“It could have been fixed.”

“ _Not when it took you away from me_!” Flint exploded. He was an arm’s length away from Thomas now, hearing the edge of hysteria in his voice, the tears in his eyes bright and burning. “Yes, I ran when it first happened. I should have come for you, no matter what - I should have tore Bedlam down with my bare _fucking_ hands to get you out! I have regretted not doing so every day since, especially – especially when they told me you were _dead_. That you had-” Flint tore off, face contorted by emotion as a heavy sob took his breath, leaving him gasping. “That you had killed yourself, Thomas. I felt the pain of that knowledge every day. And that as the moment I decided that England would pay in its blood for your loss.”

Flint took a shuddering breath and half fell, palms slamming heavily against the desk in the corner as he leaned against it, a sad imitation of how he had stood with Silver to plan this rescue. Only, it didn’t feel like much of a victory with Thomas’ furious eyes looking at him with disdain and hurt, not a trace of their former affection visible, and that wounded Flint more than a thousand English bullets could. The blurring masking his sight fell away as he blinked, seeing the drops of water pool on the desk below him, clearing after a moment, taking deep breaths until that moment arrived. He was aware of Thomas still standing behind him, which he took as a good sign – he hadn’t run away, at least. That meant that somewhere, _his_ Thomas might still remain, and may listen to him.

In the silence, Thomas finally spoke: “Why are you here?”

“I came to rescue you,” Flint replied. He didn’t – couldn’t – look at Thomas anymore; it was like staring into the sun. Although he directed his words at the desk, his heart went to the man at his back. “I thought you were a ghost and then – then you were alive so _of course_ I came for you. They knew I would – that’s why you’re here. I wanted to save you, Thomas-”

Finally, Flint turned – and as he spoke, barely had time to register what he was seeing – Thomas facing him, now with a gun in his hand – before the weapon fired in a haze of sparks, and suddenly Flint felt himself slammed against the desk again.

All the breath was crushed from him with the shot, leaving in a sharp cry which tore from his throat. Flint fell hard, head hitting against the wall of the cabin, only saved from crumbling to the floor by grabbing a hold of the side of the desk with one of his hands. The other had immediately clamped around his stomach, where the pool of crimson was spreading across his shirt, although the pain was dulled by shock, which seeped into his veins like ice and left him numb. His eyes rested on the wound for only an instant – it was irrelevant, compared to the knowledge of who inflicted it.

It only took that moment of shock before Flint looked back at Thomas.

The still-smoking gun was shaking violently, clasped in a hand with white knuckles from the effort to keep it upright, both hands keeping the weapon steady as if it possessed some terrible weight Thomas could not lift. Even as Flint watched, the man let out a shuddering gasp, the gun tumbling from his trembling fingers to land on the wooden boards with a dull thud which cracked the air around them, ringing though his ears were from the shot itself. The hands fell to Thomas’ sides, and Flint followed his body until he reached Thomas’ face – any drop of remaining colour had fled, his sunken jaw slack in shock, but yet again it was his eyes that made Flint’s heart lurch.

Wide, glassy blue eyes were flicking between the pool of blood Flint’s hand was holding to the gun, as Thomas began to weep gently, his entire body beginning to shake. His hands may have wounded, may have pulled the trigger, but the soul in his eyes screamed at what he had done in utter horror, causing any emotion but an intense wave of sympathy and anger to evaporate from Flint. Never in all his years had he seen eyes so desolately broken, aside from in his own looking glass.

“I – I never – I didn’t . . .”

Stammering and stuttering out vague phrases of confusion, revulsion, and horror, Thomas fell back as if he were the one who had been shot. The terror in his eyes increased tenfold, widening in realisation as one hand drifted out towards Flint; who for a second thought Thomas might come to him – but then an invisible blow sent Thomas’ reeling back. The hand that had been extended twisted into his white shirt as Thomas hit the wall behind him before sliding down it, moaning faintly. Eyes fluttering closed, he tucked his knees into his chest and curled up like a wounded animal on the floor, shaking and sobbing; for the first time, vision clouding as it was, Flint saw him clearly.

This was not the Thomas he had once known, just as he was no longer James McGraw. The man in front of him was a shadow with the face of his lost love, a shattered reflection, and from the signs of torture on his withered frame and fighting in his eyes, something so terrible had happened in the past years, and now it asserted itself in the form of a bullet in Flint’s side.

Thomas . . . he was sick, the English had hurt him not only in his body but by infecting his thoughts, corrupting the very _soul_ of the peaceful man Flint had fallen in love with – bleeding, maybe dying as he was, Flint knew that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to heal Thomas right then.

Nobody deserved this fate, no least someone as good as Thomas, and despite all instances, Flint felt his resolve harden. He was _going_ to take Thomas away from this place. He was _going_ to prove that the man he had known still existed, and show this fragile, fighting man that there was still softness in the world. And then, when the day came that Thomas knew peace once more, on the day he could smile – Flint was _going_ to tear England’s heart out.

“It- it’s okay,” Flint choked out through a grunt of pain at trying to breathe, his voice oddly wet. His eyes never left Thomas, soft, who looked up at the sound so vulnerably, but in whose blue hues was a flicker of recognition. “Thomas, it’s okay. You didn’t mean to do this, they . . . they made you. You’re still a good man, I believe that. I still . . .” He didn’t want to say it yet, to admit the love that still burned hotter and brighter than a thousand flames in his chest. The words choked Flint more than the blood, hot and coppery in his mouth, and he paused. With a small, wry smile, a heartbeat away from unconsciousness, Flint remembered something he had said many years ago, and it was James who spoke through shuddered breaths, struggling to stay awake. “You’re still a good man . . . and I’ll . . . still defend that. Thom- Thomas . . .”

As the darkness swallowed him whole, Flint was vaguely aware of someone catching him before he hit the floor, of the brush of a hand against his cheek, but then all his thoughts stopped as he slid into the woozy embrace of unconsciousness.

This is not a ghost story, but Captain Flint thought he was dying as the darkness claimed him.


	2. This is not a love story

This is not a love story, remember that.

Do not be deceived by circumstance or hope into believing so, as many people have in times gone and will do in the future, selling their hearts and souls in the fickle and vague pursuit of love. For Flint was a man built on blood and heartache and the smell of the sea, made for adventures and horror, not love stories. His tale may have begun with one, but he had long ago put aside all expectations of romance, and thought of himself as a solitary figure scarred into the book of history.

Legends and stories told after his time would call Captain Flint fearless. They would speak of his capture of English ships and his one-man battle against an entire nation, and the bloodthirsty way he enacted that war, if they spoke of him at all. Even then, he was a whisper. Something told around firelight, in hushed voices, the superstition around the man lasting long after his death, leaving them afraid to even speak his name, for fear of the man.

The ghost. The famous pirate who conquered what no other man could.

 _Captain Flint_ was a legend, but James was not, and certainly didn’t feel like one when he awoke to a pounding headache and was immediately sick next to the bed.

Dully, he heard a thud approaching him as he coughed; gagging at the taste lingering in his dry mouth, and a glass was pressed into his hand a moment later. Without looking at the hand that gave it, he chugged the water greedily, almost choking further in his haste. Between the waves of nausea hitting him and the pounding of his skull, he felt thoroughly dead, and wondered vaguely how he was even still alive, and if that were a blessing or a curse. A hand moved to his stomach, feeling out the bullet wound, and found a thick wad of bandages around his middle. Although he felt exhausted already from his minimal movement, weak and heavy, he thought waking up was a good sign that he was not going to die. If there was one thing he did not like, however, it was feeling _weak_.

“Silver,” Flint said through closed eyes, hiding a wince and trying not to show just how dreadful he really felt, “What the fuck happened?”

The thudding stopped, and then there was a dip in the bed by his feet. He opened his eyes a fraction to see John Silver sitting on the end of his bed, rubbing his thigh just above the amputation and appearing as if he hadn’t slept in days, from his pale face and dark circles around his eyes. Wearily, the other man sighed.

“What do you remember?”

“I know Thomas shot me, please do not patronise me by trying to spare my _feelings_ ,” Flint bit out. He heard the anger in his voice, the lurch in his stomach cementing his worry, and finally understood why Silver could be so damn stubborn about his leg sometimes. Feeling helpless was a truly pitiful thing. “I need facts. What happened to Thomas? How long have I been out?” Flint paused, looking around the room quickly. He recognised the wooden doors and grey drapes, and blinked back at Silver. “Are we at Miranda’s cottage?”

It was haunting, to be back there. Since . . . since Miranda was gone, he had found no reason to return. The cottage had stayed empty. He assumed it would always stay so – but there was a fire in the small fireplace, and although a thin layer of dust covered the wardrobe in the corner of the room, the sheet covering him was clean and smelled faintly of lavender. Life had been breathed back into the place.

“Yes,” Silver replied, drawing his attention back. The other man winced slightly, and kneaded his hands together before looking up apologetically at Flint. “I’m sorry. I know she meant a lot to you, and being back here . . . I’m just sorry. But you were dying, and there was nowhere else we thought you would be safe. Nassau is no longer ours with Rodgers there, and you were losing too much blood - we had to get you off _the Walrus_.”

“So you came here.”

Silver nodded. “I’ve been here the whole time. Billy and Bonny are running _the Walrus_ while Rackham handles his own ship. They’re lying low. The doctor is here, so are Madi and her men to protect the house, and you’ve been unconscious for five days. We didn’t know if you were going to make it, Captain.”

“Is that why you look like shit?”

“You can talk,” Silver snorted. Flint managed a weak smile, somehow touched that his friend had stayed with him all this time. A moment later, Flint felt his stomach drop for a second time, as Silver continued. “Billy found you. He knocked Thomas out and we brought both of you here. He’s in the guest room – no, don’t you even try it.” As Flint moved immediately to sit, wanting to go and see Thomas, a surprisingly strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, pushing him back into the pillows. Usually, there was no competition between him and Silver when it came to physical strength, but in his injured state, Flint was easily stopped from rushing off. “Listen, no – stop it! You’re not to move for another three days; doctor’s orders. You’re going to stay in that bed until you’re well enough, so help me God, and _then_ you can see him!”

Silver sounded exasperated, running a hand through his long hair and puffing a heavy sigh through his nose. He was half-pleading as he looked down at Flint, who felt vaguely vindicated, seeing what a pain Silver had been about his _own_ injury. With the rising pain and frustration, Flint was just annoyed enough to retaliate.

“-Hypocrite.”

“ _May_ be,” Silver said back loudly, looking thoroughly cowed, half-guiltily rubbing at his leg. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze back to Flint, who tried to look as determined as he could but dissolved into a grimace. Winning the battle of gazes, Silver gave him a last stern look as he stood. “He’s not going anywhere, Flint. Neither are you. I suggest you get some rest.”

He clunked away, turning with a twist of his lips in what could have been a smile at the door accompanied by flair of his hand; something landed on the covers next to Flint. Looking down, he found a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid, and turned back to Silver in confusion.

“That will help with the pain . . . and provide a dreamless sleep, according to the doctor,” Silver explained, face sympathetic as his eyes dragged along the walls of the cottage. “And if that doesn’t work, there’s a bottle of rum under the bed – but I didn’t give it to you, right?”

The expression was definitely a smile now, and Silver disappeared without waiting for Flint to speak, closing the door quietly behind him; the sound of his leg echoed through the house until he got to the kitchen, at which point Flint was left truly alone in the room, still and silent around him. Wryly, his own lips warped into a smile. It was still odd to have a true friend. Twisting the vial between his fingers, Flint watched the liquid inside tumble and break in waves, glinting in the light of the candle beside him on the table, as unknowable as the sea. Whether or not to dream wasn’t a choice usually in his hands; he grappled with both dreams of better times and nightmares, and now it took him a little while to decide what to do.

Above all else, Flint was _tired_. His body ached terribly: a dull, heavy pain lingered where the bullets had struck, and the surrounding skin was blotchy with bruises, yellow against his pale, freckled skin. From lying for so long, his bones ached to move again, to run, to stand, to go to Thomas, just a few rooms away – but his stomach lurched dangerously at the prospect, and his head swam dizzyingly when lifted more than a few inches from the embrace of the pillows. And, on top of the physical pains, he was heart-sick. _Thomas_ had shot him. The thought hurt too much to conceive. After all these years yearning for him, justifying his every bloody act in the name _Hamilton_ , the love of Flint’s life hated him enough to pull the trigger three times, and fill his guts with lead.

Thomas wanted him dead.

Without a second’s pause, Flint poured the contents of the glass vial down his neck, hoping for oblivion, and sank once more into an all-consuming darkness.

*

Flint saw the question in Silver eyes every time the other man entered the room. It lingered, and the silence that stretched between his grunts of pain as over the next few days was weighted with what Silver was pointedly not saying; his friend helped Flint to first sit, then to slowly walk, taking laps around the bed. It wasn’t comfortable, as every step sent a sharp jolt through his still-bandaged stomach, Flint’s lungs aching and heaving as he half-stumbled around the room, his weight balanced awkwardly because of the pain. It was not graceful, to say the least.

Silver helped him, showing more patience as a nursemaid than he ever had as a quartermaster. It reminded Flint that this was the man who was prepared to wait months for the Urca Gold he had hidden away, as Silver let Flint lean on his arm to walk, face impassive even when Flint lost his temper at his leg’s buckling; Silver just caught him as well as he could, and carried on. The other man took abuse, tumbles, and several brusies without complaint. When he could finally hobble around the room on Silver’s arm without falling or visibly wincing, Flint’s mood improved greatly, knowing the time when he would be allowed to see Thomas was drawing nearer, and began to laugh at the situation.

“Talk about the crippled leading the injured,” Flint joked breathlessly.

In response, Silver dropped him unceremoniously back onto the bed. Silver’s own face was damp with sweat from the effort of helping Flint around; as he sat at the bed’s foot, his remaining leg was trembling. His hands moved to massage it, dropping eye contact, but Flint watched the grimaced smile light up his face. There was that silence again. He knew Silver wanted to know, and like the honesty that seized them as they buried the gold, he _wanted_ to tell him.

“I don’t know why Thomas shot me,” Flint said aloud. On the bed, Silver’s hands froze, stopping to listen as Flint spoke. “He’s . . . different, than when I knew him. The English, they’ve kept him for years, lied to him – tortured him, by the looks of it. He was so _angry_. And I’ve seen his anger before, but it was always mixed with passion, with caring for something: now he just seems _empty_. Hollow with anger. Drained of emotion. And I . . .” Blinking back a sudden heat in his eyes, Flint took a measured breath. “I don’t know what do to. But I know I must try to help him. I would never forgive myself if I abandoned him now.”

After a moment, Silver looked up. The question was gone from his eyes.

“I know,” he replied, nodding slowly. “I know you must try to save him, and I know why. But Captain . . . do you think you are safe with him?”

Flint didn’t know how to answer, but blinked in uncertainty in response. _Was_ he safe with Thomas? The question would have sounded absurd in any other moment in his past – of course he was safe with Thomas. It was the rest of the world that was dangerous to them. But now, a pit of doubt opened in his stomach as his eyes stared into nothing with thought, and the answer was no longer simple; he still had a weeping hole in his gut, and Thomas had been the one to put it there. Flint didn’t know what would happen if they were alone together again. It could very well end with Thomas once again trying to kill him, and that thought sent ice down his spine.

“I don’t know,” Flint replied honestly, blinking as the room came back into focus. Silver was still watching him quietly, puzzling, so Flint genuinely hoped that the other man was having more luck working it out than he was. The blanket on top of the bed was scratchy beneath Flint’s fingers, coarse as he clenched the sheets further in worry. After a moment, seeming to decide something, Silver stood, offering out a hand.

“Then I suppose we’d better go and ask him, then.”

Flint blinked, unmoving as he stared at the hand before him. He looked back up at Silver. “What?”

“You’ve been waiting for days to talk to him,” Silver said, not an accusation but a fact. He waved his extended hand a little. “I think we can kill two birds with one stone. You get to talk to him, and first you can ask if he’s going to try and kill you again. The answer will determine whether or not I leave you in there alone.”

“Really?” Flint asked, hesitantly taking the hand as Silver heaved him out of bed. They stood as Flint caught his balance, slowly hobbling out of the door for the first time in days until they got to a closed door down the small corridor, sunlight flooding in through a window on the wall. The door was wooden and flaking away, and Flint paused before it. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Silver echoed, looking over at him. “I’ve always found the best way to get an answer is to just _ask_.”

A ghost of a smile forced its way onto Flint’s face, as he stood beside his friend. “Like finding out where you and I stand?”

Silver’s face twisted to match his own, lips closed but quirked upwards, and he looked away. “Exactly like that.”

Flint added before he pushed open the door. “Because I never gave you an answer to that one. You’re my friend. Perhaps my only one.”

The other man had no chance to reply for that, for Flint had reached out to push the door open and taken a shaking step in, walking alone for the first time since the injury as he left Silver behind in the hall. The James Flint School of avoiding showing emotion was in session, but it had felt good to admit aloud that he had at least one friend in this world, and thought he caught a shocked but happy expression cross Silver’s face before he left. Then he saw Thomas, and all other thoughts were driven from his mind.

Thomas was again sitting on a bed, but this time he looked agitated, pressed into the corner of the bed as his hands wound themselves tightly into the blankets. Although his body showed signs of anxiety, he looked much less pale, his cheeks slightly more red and filled out like he was at least being fed well for the first time in a long time, and the door was not locked. He was no longer a prisoner. But that did not mean that Thomas was free.

On a table beside him was a candle, and Flint took the chair at the end of the room, easing himself into a sitting position. Pain spiked in his gut, so he closed his hands over the area, lacing his fingers together as he watched Thomas sit straighter, anxiety crossing his face at Flint’s entrance.

Like a hawk, Thomas looked around at the intrusion, eyes widening slightly when they took in Flint. They trailed down his body, to where Flint’s hands obscured the swell of bandages beneath his navy shirt, but soon returned to his face. Blue eyes scorched as they met his own, and Flint suppressed a shiver. It was still a shock to see Thomas up-close again. Eventually, Thomas turned his gaze to the door, where Silver stood framed.

“Is your bodyguard staying?”

“No,” Flint said, just as Silver replied loudly, “Yes!”

Scowling slightly, Flint turned his gaze on the man in the door, who was staring determinedly back, eyebrows up. Limping into the room, he closed the door behind him and leaned on it. There was a victorious look already in his eyes when he asked, “Is there a problem with that, captain?”

Flint tried not to scowl. “Thomas is unarmed this time. Do you really think I’m going to just let him attack me?”

Calculating, Silver looked slowly between him and Thomas, the gaze that returned to Flint not judgemental, but deeply concerned. “Yes. Yes, I think you would.”

Pouting, and murmuring something under his breath which sounded vaguely like “you shit”, Flint crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring the watcher at the door as he turned back to Thomas. On the bed, Thomas was watching all of this, and although his face remained still, there was something of amusement in his eyes. And it _hurt_.

It hurt more than the bullet to be in the same room as Thomas and not be able to go to him without hesitation or doubt, the air between them charged with static that Flint wanted to destroy, to walk through until he was at Thomas’ side, to hold him again so closely there was no space between them at all, until he could feel Thomas’ steady breaths and beating heart against his skin. It hurt that the monster called mistrust now prowled in the no man’s land between them, leeching doubt into the air and waiting to be fed, a leering, grinning darkness that existed in the few feet of space between them. It hurt that there was a bullet-sized doubt at all.

Flint had dreamed of seeing Thomas again, but in all of those dreams they had run towards each other and met, grabbing on to one another for dear life until they had merged to one being. He had dreamed their reunion as a happy one, of running his hands through Thomas’ hair again, and the sound of his voice bringing him home, and the taste of his lips – Flint winced. In all of those dreams, Miranda had been with them. And Thomas being alive may be the great miracle of his life, but he had seen Miranda die, the glass in her eyes, and her body displayed for the town. She was always there in his dreams, but that was impossible now, and he couldn’t touch Thomas; so was this a nightmare? Had he died from the wound, leaving him bound forever in a Purgatory where he could be so close to Thomas Hamilton physically . . . but never truly reach him?

Stomach churning with guilt, worry, and something that still resembled hope, Flint forced his eyes back to the present. Thomas was still sitting on the bed, legs swung over the side, facing him side-on with that inquisitive look; they could almost have been back in London, in their bed – but such thoughts were foolish, and dreams were deceptive fiends which only made the crushing blows of life hit harder, so Flint forced his mind away from such a fickle thing as hope.

Before his mouth had caught up to his mind on that front, he was leaned forward in his seat and asked, throwing his feelings out into the battlefield, concern laced into every words, “Are you alright? Are you being treated well?”

Although he looked surprised at the question, Thomas nodded mutely, looking away from Flint in a flinch. Guilt pinched his face, and Thomas’ hands clenched tightly in the sheets as if he were at war with himself; his eyes wandered to the door before focusing back on Flint to elaborate.

“They’re feeding me. I had a bath for the first time in . . . months, I think, the other day. The water was even warm. And I like being able to see the sun,” Thomas said, eyes drifting the window. A soft smile tugged at his lips at the sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the closed shutters. When he turned back to Flint, there was a glimmer life behind his eyes again. “It’s almost like being free.”

Wincing inwardly at the words and feeling rage stir within him that Thomas spoke with such awe at the simplest of things as a bath and sunlight, swearing that he would personally make anyone who had a hand in sending him to Bedlam pay, Flint fought to keep his face impassive. He wanted to cry, and rage, and scream that Thomas should never have to feel that way; but he held his tongue. The last thing either of them needed was for him to lose his head.

But the last phrase struck him to action, and he declared loudly. “You _are_ free, Thomas. The English will never lay hands on you again, I swear it, and I’ll swear it for as long as there is breath in my lungs . . .” Realising he had crossed the line to emotional, Flint leaned back, disguising a sharp intake of breath as a cough. “You’re not a prisoner here. You are a guest, because . . . because I want to help you, if you will let me. England hurt you, I know that – they will never hurt you again.” Noticing how Thomas’ eyes flicked to the door, currently blocked by Silver, who was trying very hard to appear as if he were inspecting dirt underneath his nails very closely and not listening in, so Thomas caught his eye and made another vow. “That door will _never_ be locked.”

Thomas never stopped watching him, changing tack by asking, “So this is your life now? These are your . . . friends?”

“Annoyances, more like,” Flint replied, ignoring Silver’s scoff as he focused in on Thomas again, but practically assessing this time. When he had spoken, there was not a sneering judgement but a genuine curiosity in the softness of Thomas’ voice, and Flint found himself nodding after a moment. “Yes, this is my life now. I know you think I’m nothing but a pirate, a criminal – but it is England who commits the true horrors in its own name. We only wish to live freely-”

“We?”

“Nassau,” Flint said. “All of Nassau. United in its own government against England, to establish its own borders and trade, its own laws . . . it’s own version of what is ‘acceptable’. The men want gold, and a place to rest, and to be their own men. With no kings, no tyrants, no lords or commanders.”

“Are you not a captain? Do you not lead them in this folly?” Thomas asked, his choice of words echoing that of the English, but on the contrary, his voice did not hold the disdain or conviction of the words, as if he were saying them out of repetition or instinct. These words were not his own.

Flint swallowed a lump in his throat. “I am the captain, that much they have told you is true. But a captain does not own his men, he helps them to gain prizes - _they_ pick _him_ , by election, and he lives and dies by their approval, not the other way around.” Ignoring the way Silver shifted at the door, Flint went on. “These men do not want orders. They want to love freely and think freely, that is all. They’re not monsters, Thomas . . . _I_ am not the monster I fear they have told you I am.”

The words were hard to force from his throat. A memory flashed between them, still bright and burning in anger screaming “ _They took everything from us._ _And then they call me a monster?”_ But Miranda was the only witness to his blaze of fury that day, one of the few times he had been both Captain Flint _and_ James McGraw, his newfound rage mixing with tears as his heart bled right through to be on show - and she was gone now. He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore; there was a time he _wanted_ to be their monster after her death, to be their nightmare, worse than his own, and make them run at the mere name of Flint.

But in his heart, he still wanted to be a man who believed in peace, the one Thomas had fallen in love with. The one who still had fight in him, who still had anger, but who put it towards making a better future, not tearing down what had come before. That was the change. Now, Flint wanted to burn England to the ground, stand in its smouldering remains, turn his back to the sea without fear, and become the King of Ashes as he rose a free Nassau in its place.

He might be a monster, he did not know. To some, he surely was. To others, such a thought was inconceivable. Depending on the man, he was a captain or a criminal; a saviour or a fool; a murderer, a crook, a legend, a tactician, a cornerstone of the battle or a stone in a stream that made entire rivers bend to its will to remain unmoved. Which of these things were his fictions, or his real self, or an odd mixture of both, merged over time to become a new version of James Flint, he did not know anymore. But monster was the moniker that got under his skin, and he never – NEVER – wanted Thomas of all people to look at him as one.

Something twitched in Thomas’ eye, and Flint knew he was right, leaning forwards slightly. “What did they tell you, Thomas? What did they do to you?”

For a moment, he feared Thomas would not speak; the other man had paled in memory, blinking away to look at his own hand clenched in the covers, but after a moment he spoke in a clear voice, never moving his gaze from the bed.

“I was in Bedlam for a long time. So long, I forgot how much time it had been . . . lost track of the days, months . . . _years_. They told me straight away that you had left with Miranda. I – I remember this feeling at first, like that was a victory . . . stupid me. But after a while, after the cold and damp and the darkness; the beatings and whippings and -” Thomas shuddered, his voice having grown louder and colder, mouth shaped in disgust and fear as if running without his mind keeping pace, a string of thoughts running free. He slammed his lips shut with a smash. The hand on the sheet was white knuckled now. When Thomas looked up, his gaze was shattered with crippling fear and hatred, for himself and for Flint. “Don’t pity me, I do not have need for it nor do I want it from some filthy pirate! But that is what happened. They kept me, tried to ‘fix’ me, and told me often of _you_. How you had run away with Miranda without hesitation, how you had both been secretly plotting to leave me behind my back for years, how you were both _happy_ and _free-”_ Thomas’ lip had curled into a sneer. Flint could barely breathe, let alone talk back, as Thomas’ fixed his eyes on his own. “And they told what you had become. A pirate. The enemy of all things good and lawful. The one they feared the most . . .”

Flint found his voice, although it was small and weak. “No . . .”

To his surprise, there was a warmth on Flint’s cheeks; the room blurred with the taste of salt in the corners of his lips. The voice that spoke felt as if it came from outside of his body, like he was floating above it, echoing strangely in Flint’s own head. Vaguely, from a stab of pain, he became away he had stood, and remained shaking on his feet, eyes locked on Thomas’, torn between the tears that threatened to fall and not wanting to lose that gaze. He wasn’t there, and this wasn’t real, and this _couldn’t_ have happened to Thomas –

“No, No, Thomas, they didn’t-”Flint tried to speak, but his voice cracked in a horrible way again, throat feeling so dry he could not speak. Shaking his head, one hand pressed closely to his lips as his words failed, Flint hovered between going to Thomas or punching a wall, turning on his heels until Silver came into view, matching horror at the tale shining in his bright blue eyes. Seeing this, Flint turned back to Thomas in resolve, never breaching the unspoken barrier of the end of the bed but leaning heavily on the wooden frame, his hand reaching out to Thomas, the straw-haired ghost of all his dreams. “I – I am so sorry that this has happened to you. I can’t imagine . . . they should never have – it should never have come to this . . . I should have come for you! I should never have – I should never have let myself fall for you.” Flint swallowed dust. “This is all my fault.”

“I think we all played our parts in this, Lieutenant,” Thomas said, almost inaudibly. Although it burned to look at him, Flint did, and there was no anger in the eyes that met his own. What met his gaze was almost as scary, and as heartbreaking; he looked very tired, and very lonely, and very lost. “The fault does not lie entirely in you – not for the start, at least. Not for the love.”

“I should have come for you.”

Something about his words stirred Thomas, and suddenly the cold anger was back in his eyes. It appeared there as struck like a blow, and he flinched away slightly, as if the reaction was physical as well as mental. “You were too busy fighting the English and declaring your own kingdom to remember me.”

“That’s not true,” Flint shook his head, imploringly. This time, he had noticed the way Thomas moved. The flinch; then the anger. It wasn’t hard to imagine him in a cell, being told Flint was off living some glorious life as a pirate, each lie punctuated by a blow. “I fight them, but for freedom, not greed! For _you_! I’m not monstrous, nor am I malicious; I am only whatever England made me; whatever I _have_ to be to defeat them. This . . . this is not the life I wanted, you know that. I wanted you beside me, I wanted us to be safe here . . . but I am still that man, or what is left of him.” If it were possible with his injuries, Flint would have been on both of his knees now, begging at Thomas’ feet. “I’m still the man you loved. I’m still James.”

“You talk of defeat, but you have already lost, Lieutenant,” Thomas said, but there was a detached tone to his voice instead of any real coldness. He looked away with glassy eyes, back towards the sun. “You’re a pirate. I’m as good as useless. Miranda is dead, or so they tell me. You killed her-”

“ _Never_!” Flint exploded, and this time he did take a step forward, right into no man’s land. “I loved her, Thomas, you know that. We both did. I didn’t kill her, I could _never_ hurt Miranda – she - she was killed right in front of me, when I went to ask for _peace_!” A loud, cold laugh hacked its way out of Flint’s throat, and he found he was crying again, ugly tears rolling down his cheeks. It was unexplainable, the rage that swelled in his chest when he thought of Miranda, and every thought of her was ripped from him, replaced with the image of her lying on the floor with a bullet in her head. It cut out all the good, leaving him gasping. The anger in his gut was dark, and hungry, and it wanted to rant and rage and make people _hurt_ – and it scared him sometimes, how much he let it. “That – that I was prepared to do, for her – and they killed her for it! Don’t you see, Thomas? Everything – everything I have done, it has been for love. For you and Miranda, and what could have been our future – but they took it from us! They killed you both and I was alone and -”

“And that was something you should never be,” Thomas said, a strange look on his face. It appeared as a creased brow, his head nodding slightly. “I . . . remember. You should never be angry and alone. You’re not good at being that way.”

The head turned to Flint, and Thomas knew him for the first time. There was recognition on his features, delicately fresh and fragile; Flint barely breathing for fear of breaking it. He knew he stood closer now, frozen between one breath and the next, until Thomas finally looked away.

“I think you should go now, please,” he said, eyes determinedly on his own hands again. “For both of us.”

Flint, so sure things had been moving in the right direction, felt a bucket of water had been dumped over his head as he stepped numbly away. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s right, you _don’t_ ,” Thomas said, steel in his voice again. He looked up, eyes lost. “What they did to me, James – they _broke_ me. I’m not – I’m not the man you knew, just as much as you are a better pirate than you ever were a lieutenant. They’ve done things – terrible things – and it’s taking everything I have not to come over there and tear you apart, to do it with my own bear hands! I want to _hurt_ you. I _will_ hurt you.” He changed from a thread of malignant anger which tore his delicate face to shreads and left a man holding on by his fingertips in his place, and Flint saw his own reflected image in Thomas’ shaking form, but the anger dissolved to pleading. “So please, please go. I don’t want to be what they made me, I don’t – I don’t want to hurt you again. You’re not safe with me, so go. _Go_!”

Time was never on their side. It never had been, and wasn’t about to change its allegiance now. They had met in a time where their love could meet nothing but scorn and ignorance; had fallen in love at a time they were in the most danger politically; lost each other right on the edge of their shared dream. But the tides belonged to time, and Flint had become the master of the sea long ago. Now, he knew that sometimes, all that it took to change the tide was one moment of courage; he had learned, simply, to be a patient man.

Slowly, he nodded. “I do not want you to be distressed, Thomas, so I will go. But I do not believe you will hurt me now you’re free of them. Because that was _their_ bullet, not yours. England did this. I believe in the man you were, the man you still are - and that man would never let anyone else tell him who he was, and he would fight back against this. I will come back tomorrow, and every day after, until you see what I know: I _am_ safe with you.”

With a nod, Flint left the room, leaving its two remaining occupants in his stunned wake.

*

Thomas was sitting alone in his room a few hours after his conversation with Flint, a piece of paper in front of him and the smell of ink filling the air, when someone approached the door. As the sun died outside, the candle becoming the only source of light in the small room Thomas was afraid to leave, although he knew he was free to, he had pulled out a blank piece of paper, which he slowly but surely began to fill. Thomas wrote things he knew to be true. It started with the simple facts: his name, the street where he had grown up, his and Miranda’s anniversary, her birthday. Then things started to blur. Thomas tried to write about the Lieutenant – about Flint – about _James_ . . . it was all becoming too confusing.

In his mind, there were vague recollections of conversations, reading aloud, and the colour of James’ eyes first thing in the morning, but they were hazy, like seeing someone across a room filled with smoke.

He was saved from agonising over not being able to remember any more by the approaching footsteps, one light step accompanied by a much heavier tread, echoing as it got rearer. From that, he had a strong suspicion who was coming, but the footsteps were solitary, leaving Thomas wondering why. There was a knock at the door, and Thomas called, “Come in.”

The man from earlier pushed the door open with a small smile. Nodding to Thomas as he entered in a way that made his long dark hair bounce on his shoulders, the man closed the door softly behind him before crossing the room, his fake leg making a dull sound each time the metal hit the wood. As Flint had, the man pulled the chair in the corner closer, placing it across from where Thomas sat at the small table, and sat on it, immediately beginning to knead his leg with his thumbs.

Noticing Thomas watching, the man gave him another closed-lip smile that was infuriatingly un-telling of any real emotion. “It’s a bastard to get around on, but it’s better than being dead - or so they tell me.”

“What happened?” Thomas asked, despite himself.

“I made a decision about what was important,” the man replied elusively. His hands kept moving, but his spine straightened slightly as he regarded Thomas, his gaze steady. “I chose my crew over my leg, which for me . . . that was something. But I had come to the conclusion that some things were more important than myself. My crew were; keeping them safe was. The bigger picture was. I never shared Flint’s dream for Nassau – I wanted gold, and lots of it, not to be a pirate.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” the dark haired stranger said. “ _He_ did.”

Thomas said nothing. In the flickering candlelight, he thought he saw himself in the shadows of the other man’s face, and a memory established itself from the indistinct murky waters of his mind. It flared and became more defined. He had been the one with the dream for Nassau, and the Lieutenant had been there to stop him for his ‘dangerous’ ideas on liberty; the tables had been turned then, James was the one who needed convincing, and yet somehow they had ended up picking the same battle and fighting it together. The world was right, back then. He loved James and – _oh._

“Yes,” Thomas found himself saying, faintly, as if he were in a dream. “Yes, I believe he does have that effect.”

“Believe or remember?”

“Both, I suppose.” Thomas blinked back into the room. The other man had not interrupted or spoken again, although Thomas felt he had been lost in his own thoughts for a few minutes, but was instead watching him curiously, still working at his thigh. The pain on his face seemed to have lifted slightly, the man’s features no longer marred by discomfort, but he was still unflappable and unreadable. Thomas focused on him again, “I apologise. I don’t recall your name, Mr . . . ?”

“Silver,” the man replied almost cheerfully, extending a hand out between them. “John Silver.”

Thomas took the hand and shook it, finding it remarkably soft for a pirate’s, neither calloused nor weathered. There was a slight roughness on his palms, like a rope-burn, but Thomas would guess that Mr. Silver had not been a pirate for very long, or he was not a very good one. Flint’s hand had looked scarred and rough from working a ship, he had noticed earlier. Silver let go; Thomas returned his hands to resting on the desk, feeling the still damp ink beneath his fingertips.

“I’m sure you know who I am,” he said finally, not quite ready to drop eye contact yet. Thomas did not know if he trusted John Silver entirely. “Or you wouldn’t be here. So what can I do for you, Mr. Silver?”

“A moment of your time is all I ask.”

“It’s yours,” Thomas replied evenly. If pushed, he would admit that he was intrigued. For days when he was first brought here from the English ship, he had been weak enough to stay in bed, although a collection of people left food a few times a day, and a man claiming to be a doctor had come to speak to him. Nobody had tried to talk to him, aside from that. Flint had been an . . . experience, that afternoon, but Thomas was altogether quite ready to hear voices that were not inside his own head for a while. He gestured with his hand, indicating for Silver to go on. “Please.”

For a moment, Silver nodded graciously, another one of those fleeting almost-smiles lighting up his face. A real emotion lingered in his gaze before it dropped: concern. He was doubting something, as he looked down, but seemed resolved to complete his mission; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red book. Holding it in his hands, he turned it over, hesitating only a moment more before he extended the book to Thomas.

“ _Meditations_ ,” Thomas read, seeing the title on the spine, although the leather bound book bore only an insignia on the cover. His voice sounded oddly echoed, like it was coming from far away. “Marcus Aurelius.”

“Take it, please,” Silver said, slightly dipping the book towards Thomas, “I went through enough to get my hands on it. I should have known the only way to pry this book from Flint would for him to be unconscious – but I believe it will help you to read it. Take it.”

Although touching the book felt as though Thomas had just stuck his hand into an open fireplace, he took the book from Silver with trembling hands, holding it dazedly before him. Slowly, tenderly, lovingly, he turned the book over, running his hands over its cover and spine, idly letting the pages flick through once, rustling underneath his fingers. He stopped on the front page, a tug in his gut screaming to Thomas that this was right, that it was important; and he opened the cover to see the inscription written in his own hand on the first page.

_James_

_my truest_

_love._

_ Know No Shame _

_T.H_

Thomas was unaware of the sound of his own gentle gasp.

As he looked down on the page in the candlelight, eyes straining to see the emotion he could _feel_ was sewn into every crafted letter, a flood of memories struck him, lightning through his body to his bounding heart, that was currently struggling to break free of his ribcage. There and gone in a blink, he felt a surge of love, so strong it knocked him back in his seat, like a punch to the gut. He had loved Fl- _James_. He had loved James. So much, so _fiercely_ . . . and yet it was still just out of reach for him now, slipping through his fingers, although Thomas wanted desperately to seize the memories and hold them until he could remember.

But undeniably, that was his hand, his book, his _heart_ there on the page.

“Wh-where did you get this?”

“From the captain’s study. He keeps that book safe, above all other things he owns. I believe Miranda kept it for him for a long time,” Silver answered, oh-so-gently, like he was dealing with something very fragile, which Thomas supposed, he was now. And then he began to speak. “There was always something about Captain Flint. Something he didn’t say. Something just behind the eyes . . . I could see it, but I was never able to work it out, not fully. I discovered his darkness, and parts of him few people were able to reach, and grew closer to him, and I still saw that through everything, there was a name behind his actions that he would never say. It was the dearest part of his heart, I think. Not too long ago, he told me your story, and he showed me that book.” Even from a few minutes, Thomas could tell that Silver had an uncanny ability with words; to tell a story. He paused then, waiting for the words to settle, before adding, “I thought it might help you to remember. If it holds even half of the importance to you as it did for Flint, I can’t see how it could do any harm. I . . . .”

Silver trailed off, shaking his head as if deciding against what he was about to say. With a blank, wan smile, he started to rise, before Thomas managed to choke out a plea.

“Please. Tell me. Whatever it is . . . my head feels like it’s about to burn up, all of the time. It _hurts_ ,” Thomas said, begging, his voice shaking. He could barely tear his eyes away from the book and all the treasure it held, as if it could anchor him to that elusive part of his past that he needed to make whole, to find the truth, but he managed it for long enough for his burning eyes to meet Silver’s. He saw nothing but compassion, as Silver sat. Thomas explained, “I want it to stop, and I think the only way out is through. So tell me, Mr. Silver. Help me to remember.”

Silver looked at him, seeing right through Thomas, and nodded. “I think that you are his soul, Mr. Hamilton. And it may not be my place to say it-” He waited for the incline of Thomas’ head that he could continue, before leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, gesturing towards the inscription in the open book on Thomas’ lap, “But I don’t think the man who wrote _that_ could hurt him, either. No matter how afraid he was, or what other people wanted him to do. I think that man loved Flint.”

“I already _have_ hurt him!” argued Thomas, shaking his head, slamming the book shut. “I _shot_ him. _I_ did that.”

“And Billy told me that when he got to the room, you were holding Flint and trying to stop the bleeding, too,” Silver replied, a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve been through a lot. Nobody blames you for what happened, not least Flint. He still loves you, you know. I know he tried to say it earlier, but he was as scared as you are, and it’s a hard thing to say. But he does.”

“How do you know?”

“Because for the past few days, Flint has had something that I have never seen in him before.”

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

Silver smiled. “Hope.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Silver got to his feet. He was still gentle, but his smile had deepened into something more genuine now, reaching his eyes, which were warm as they regarded Thomas. “I’ll leave you know, you should rest as much as you can. It’ll do you good. But I thought it was worth a minute of your time, to give you that – I hope it brings you peace, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Thomas,” said the straw-haired man, “My father was Mr. Hamilton. My friends can call me Thomas.”

“I’d say you can call me John,” Silver replied, giving a weak chuckle, “But everyone calls me Silver anyway. Friends _and_ enemies. Flint occasionally calls me a shit, but . . .”

Thomas had given a weak laugh at that, despite himself. His fingers closed around the book again, and he felt more like himself than he had in a very, very long time. Just when he had lost all hope of ever finding that man again, or being anything but the empty vessel the English had wanted him to be, drained of love and thought and _self_ , here came this stranger and handed him back his life. Thomas Hamilton. That was who he was, and Thomas was beginning to remember what that _meant_.

“Thank you, Silver,” he said, looking up. But the room was empty, leaving only the unevenly weighted sound of footsteps down the corridor, flesh and metal. After a breath, Thomas returned his attention back to the front page.

 _My truest love_.

Thomas fell asleep that night wondering if that epithet could be true once more, attached to a man who he was looking forward to seeing in the morning, and knowing that for the first time in years, he too had hope.

*

It was mid-afternoon the next day, when Flint found Thomas again. Having left his room and apparently enamoured enough with his new-found freedom to spend the morning sitting on the porch of Miranda’s house, expression euphoric just at the sun’s rays hitting his face, Thomas looked more relaxed and as close to joy as either of them were likely to find these days. From a window, Flint spied this moment, quickly looking away, feeling an intruder on a quiet, private moment. He slept after that, and slept well – he woke rested, and it was as Flint hobbled his way to the kitchen that he found Thomas standing in another bedroom, his silhouette stone-still.

Cautiously, Flint entered the room. He walked softly until he saw what had captured Thomas’ attention; sighing aloud at the sight of the portrait of Thomas and Miranda, half-hidden behind a wardrobe and brown sheet. Enough was on show for the other man to have recognised it, of course, and Thomas’ reaction was unreadable from his still face. Flint was still unused to that; to him, Thomas had always been an open book. He wore his heart on his sleeve, its contents patched into the lines of his face and the way it moved, and Flint could read his every mood and emotion without needing words – or he could, a long time ago.

Now, Thomas was closed to him. He moved very little, his face impassive, calmer in a way – but eerily so. Like seeing calm waters when you knew a tide strong enough to carry you away lay just below the surface of the water. Flint wondered what had made Thomas this way, had made him hard; but after what Thomas had been through, it wasn’t had to see why he had become a master at hiding his feelings from the world. His failure to hide his love the last time had landed him in a nightmare.

Without fear, Flint moved to stand beside Thomas.

“It’s yours, if you want it,” Flint offered, although the thought of parting with the painting brought a sharp twist in his stomach. “It was your painting first, of course. Miranda took it when we left. In the hurry, Miranda and I didn’t have time to pack many things to bring here with us . . . but she took that. I think she was as scared as I was that one day she wouldn’t remember the exact colour of your hair, or the way you smiled, or every detail of your face, as impossible as that seemed to me at the time. It was inconceivable in my grief that I could forget anything about you. It wasn’t until I saw it as we boarded the boat that I realised time was against me on that count . . . I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this, I’ll – I’ll leave you to it –”

In a fluster, knowing he had talked too much and said too little to communicate the depths of the grief that had seized him around the throat in those weeks and _squeezed_ , Flint made to leave the room, red in the face. Before he had made it four steps, however, Thomas voice cut through the air.

“No . . . I – I want to hear it,” Thomas said clearly, turning to him. It was clear that he was trying to make sense, a pained expression fleetingly passing over his features, trying to make sense of the lies the English had told him to Flint’s truth; to puzzle together the two to a disjointed picture of what actually happened. Even despite that, the burden on his shoulders seemed to have lifted overnight, and Thomas looked back with genuine emotion. “Please, it’s hard enough not knowing who is lying to me. But – Miranda. Tell me about her life here. Was she – was she _happy_?”

That question knocked the wind out of him, so Flint bought himself a few seconds to figure out how to answer by walking back towards Thomas, until they stood shoulder to shoulder. His gaze dipped from his – something – to the portrait, fully taking in Miranda’s image for the first time since her death. Afterwards, he had been haunted by the one of her lying on the floor in front of him, so to see her reflected smiling beside her husband shook him, forcing Flint so swallow hard, trying to keep control. The fact was, Miranda was an open wound. It was so recent, and so sudden, and the world had changed so vastly in that single moment that it had never fully righted itself again; it hurt him even now to think of her.

And now was the time for a painful truth.

“No,” Flint said slowly, eyes still on the painting, on her dark hair and eyes and how they _shone_ with happiness back then – “No, I don’t think she was. Not entirely. I thought the most important thing was that she was _safe_ . . . I put that above her happiness, I fear. I thought this would be enough. This house. Her garden. A place for her to live.”

“It’s nice,” Thomas said, scanning the room. “Quiet. I could live here away from the rest of the world quite happily,” a wry smile appeared on his face, “I can’t imagine Miranda liked the quiet, though. Nor can I quite believe she wasn’t beside you on that ship of yours - staying behind was never her strong point. She was too stubborn for that.”

“She was,” Flint chuckled slightly, nodding in agreement. He could see her now, shouting him down in the middle of Nassau about taking risks, never once backing down or caring what people would say. “And she wasn’t very pleased with me for wanting her to stay here, and told me, _loudly_ , many times. The people here thought she was a witch who gave me power over the seas, the way I was with her . . . the way she would tell me off. Nobody else was brave enough to.”

Thomas was smiling weakly now, looking back at the portrait. “That’s my wife.”

“But Miranda – it was never enough for her, I don’t think. Being here most of the time did not suit her nature. She was not made for the sidelines, a woman like her. Miranda was _steel_. She bent for no one. She missed our life back in England most desperately, but . . .”

Lost in memory, guilt creeping up his insides like a poisoned vine and wrapping itself slowly around his heart, Flint trailed off, voice falling absent as his thoughts sped up, too fast to follow. He knew it was true, that Miranda had never been truly happy here, and that he had failed her in that respect. The new life he had promised her had fallen apart to her spending her days already half a ghost, wandering around this empty house, entrapped there, while he spent his days lost at sea with a storm full of bad thoughts and a grudge that could level towns. It wasn’t a life; it was an existence.

Softly, Thomas prompted, a tiny crack in his voice. “Go on.”

Resigned to the truth, Flint swiped a hand over his eyes to poorly hide the tears that swelled there, looking exhaustedly back up at the miracle beside him, honest down to his bones as he admitted.

“But I couldn’t risk losing her like I lost you.”

Although Thomas was a wreck of a man dashed among the rocks, obstacles England drove him into, enough emotion leaked onto his face at the statement for Flint to read him clearly for the first time since he returned from the dead. Shock lifted his eyebrows and parted his lips, and waves of affection left his eyes washed; he blinked oddly, as if confused by these words had such a strong effect. There was still the clouded bruises rising up from below his collar, however, and Thomas struggled with himself for a moment as Flint watched, hurting every second Thomas doubted the sincerity of his love. To doubt, that was the effect the English had on Thomas, seeding mistrust for Flint over months so now he fought his instincts not to trust the pirate; it was the wedge between them, England’s greatest victory.

And as though it were his own pain, Flint flinched away from the struggle that arose on Thomas’ face, feeling guilty that he had put it there. He vowed to stop trying to push him; if it meant Thomas never looked at him with love again, so be it. But after all Thomas had been through, Flint didn’t want to torture him even more by constantly bringing this fight between the two versions of the past he had been told to the front of Thomas’ mind. It was obviously distressing him. Healing his own heart was secondary; Flint was not going to risk Thomas’ mind with these convictions again. It was enough that Thomas was alive and free – Flint tried to convince himself that he did not need Thomas to love him as he once had. It was a lie, but he forced himself to believe it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Flint backtracked, looking away. “I just miss her. I was being nostalgic, and a fool.”

“I . . . do not think you are a fool,” Thomas said, and there was that feeling in Flint’s chest again, that happy note of hope that so persistently had been singing since his lost-love had returned. “It’s hard . . . my mind is so . . . it’s confused. I know I feel something for you. But it’s blurry now; I don’t know if I can trust myself around you.” There was honesty shining in Thomas’ eyes, as he forced Flint’s gaze. “And I miss her, too. I loved her.”

“So did I,” Flint said. “I still do.”

Soon after, he left the room in silence, leaving Thomas staring at the picture of two people who were dead, for he was no longer that man, and what they had was ashes. Flint was not going to risk putting Thomas in more pain, not again. The other man had lost enough for this stupid war. Although it felt like the opposite of a victory, Flint vowed never to speak of his love for Thomas again.

*

Later that night, he pulled Silver to one side.

“When can I return to the Walrus?” Flint asked, looking his Quartermaster dead in the eye. All the softness that had filled him in this house around Thomas left him, leaving only the sharp, hard lines of Captain Flint in its place. “I can walk again. I’m well. As soon as plans can be made, I’m returning to the war, I need to be away from here.”

In confusion, Silver blinked and stepped closer, lowering his voice with a glance over his shoulder to Thomas’ form at the table, drinking tea with Madi. They were chatting amicably, and Thomas finally seemed to be relaxing around their people, trusting them more and more. As the fire danced in the corner, lighting their faces oddly and leaving black spaced and stark angles, Thomas was smiling, half of his face in shadow, but seemingly amused at the story Madi was telling him of Flint’s crew coming to her island, and how they planned to be free on Nassau with him.

“Captain, there’s no rush, if you want to stay-”

“I don’t,” Flint cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not needed here. I am there.”

“But what about Thomas?” Silver asked, waltzing right to the heart of the matter with a graceful tilt of his eyebrow, cheeks pinched in worry now. “Do you mean to abandon him? Because while the war may need _Captain Flint_ , it is painfully clear that he needs _you_.”

“That’s not true,” Flint snapped slightly, his tone becoming stormy and sharp. Seeing confirmation light up in Silver’s eyes, he leaned against the wall and elaborated, trying to force his tone to sound casual, yet it came out strangled and unlike himself. “And I’m not abandoning him! I’m leaving _for_ him. Me being here . . . it’s making it _harder_ for him, to understand what is true and what is a lie.”

“Did something happen?” Silver prompted, as if all Flint’s rant had done was confirm his own suspicions.

“No,” Flint said, too quickly. At Silver’s eyebrows reaching new levels of elevation, he sighed and relented. “I can see it, Silver. He tried to kill me because that is what they brainwashed him to think is the right thing to do, and I can see him struggling between what lies they told him and what I say – it’s hurting him more! He’s better off with me gone. Thomas will be happy here, he said as much; he’ll be free of them. That’s enough.”

“You don’t know that, not for certain,” Silver argued, dark eyebrows drawing together as he gestured with his hands, back to the fire so in shadow, but Flint knew what his expression would be even in the darkness; a pig-headed belief that he was right. “The confusion you’re describing – it sounds like he’s working _through_ what the English told him, and you’re helping him! You’re helping him to remember who he was, not what they wanted to make him. This could be the start of him getting better, Captain. Why would you run away now?”

“Because it’s hurting him!”

“Or because you’re afraid,” Silver replied bluntly. Not for the first time, Flint cursed heaven, hell, and everything in between that he had somehow become attached to a Quartermaster who was not afraid to speak freely with him, when most men didn’t even say his name these days, unless it was a whisper. But Silver was about as subtle as a bottle to the head, and never seemed to even pause before rolling out his assessment of Flint’s inner feelings and workings, to the older man’s chagrin. Sensing the reaction was cutting close to the bone, Silver’s head twisted to one side as he continued, watching Flint closely the entire time, “All this time, you were in love with him . . . and now he’s back, you’re _scared_ – what? That it won’t be the same as before?”

“Silver,” Flint grit out warningly, “ _Enough_.”

“It was never going to be the same, you have to know that,” Silver continued as if Flint hadn’t spoken at all, but he was not being flippant anymore. His hushed voice was gentle, full of concern. “But he’s back. You can’t change time, Flint. No man can do that. You cannot undo these years, but Thomas is here now . . . don’t lose him again. It’d be your own fault, this time, if you gave up on him.”

“I’m not, I’d never . . .” Flint stuttered in anger, finishing in a furious whisper. “I’d _never_ give up on him! But if it will spare him pain – if it would mean he could find the peace I never could, away from all of this- I’d let him go. Get away from all of this, from this poison, from _me_.”

“Did you ask him? How do you know that what he wants isn’t _you_?”

“How could it be?” Flint said, bitterly. “Look at me; at what I’ve done. I’m not the man he loved anymore . . . maybe all I am is the monster the English make me to be. It’s too dangerous for him to be near _me_ , and too hard for me to be near _him_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“You said it yourself: I was going too far, after Miranda’s death – I was too full of rage, too on the edge,” he replied, not noticing how loud their conversation was getting. Flint’s voice shook. “Miranda is dead because they were so afraid of me! I have so much blood on my hands . . . and the closer I am to him, the more I-” Flint stopped himself from saying ‘love him’, just barely. “- They will use him against me, time after time. And I would let Nassau _burn_ to save him. Without question or guilt. Because if I lost him again – well, I don’t need to tell you what would happen, you saw with Miranda. _I am made of grief_ , Silver, and the truth is: the only ending I ever saw to all of this was my own grave. I never intended or expected to survive the coming war, only to see it through as best I could, and he deserves someone with a future, and I have nothing _but_ the war.”

Silver was staring at him open-mouthed, but tried to rouse himself to argument, “You have _him_.”

It was such a simple statement, but Flint almost felt his resolve crack and crumble at those three short words. Although he had spent the better part of the evening convincing himself that this was right, that Thomas was safer as far from him as he could get, and that it would be better for both of them, Flint so desperately wanted himself to be wrong, and perhaps needed someone to tell him so. Silver was a good friend in that way. Flint wanted to agree, to stay, and let the decision be made by someone else for once.

But, unfortunately, what Silver had said was true: Flint _was_ scared. Scared as hell, to death; in his bones. He was so terrified of loosing Thomas again, the thought invading him somewhere between standing before the portrait and leaving the room that afternoon and taking a hold of his senses so tightly it was the only truth he could conceive, that it seemed much simpler to never have him back at all, not completely. Not in the way he wanted.

“I . . . I was wrong. I thought we could be . . . but we can’t. Not now.” Flint stepped away, feeling Silver move to follow so stepping backwards quickly, knowing that if he ran, Silver wouldn’t be able to keep up with his leg, and taking some cruel satisfaction in that planned escape. “He’s better off without me – he doesn’t love me anymore. It’s better this way.”

Turning, Flint was out of the house in a blur, heading for his solstice and his mistress; the sea. It took him an hour to walk to the coast, where he found a clump of grass under the stars, the salt of the waves on his tongue, and there, alone, he allowed himself to cry. Between sea and land, heaven and earth, despair and emptiness, he stayed for a long, long time.

This is not a love story.

If it were, it would be simple; Thomas would have ran into his arms instead of loading a bullet into Flint, and would love him after all this time, as Flint had longed for him through the years. If this were a love story, there would be no questions in his mind, or doubts, or this crippling fear that something bad would happen, or so Flint thought. He would not have a war over his head, if this were a love story, and he wouldn’t have to worry about Thomas being used as a weapon against him, or turning him from a peaceful man into a weapon himself. There wouldn’t be anything left to say but ‘I love you, I do, I always have’, and they would live happily at Miranda’s cottage, and never set foot from land for the rest of their years.

But this is not a love story, and in Flint’s mind, things were much more complicated than that, so he did what he did best – he crafted a new story, where he could run away for the war and Thomas would be better off without him, and he made himself believe it was true, to stop the emotions coursing through him from pulling him under. And it almost worked. _Almost_. So much a difference a single word in a tale could make.

This is not a love story, and Flint believed wholeheartedly that all he could be was alone, and the only ending he could imagine for himself was finding peace in a bullet or a knife or a noose on a night like this, caught adrift between the sea and the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're a black sails fan, always feel free to come find and message me on tumblr! I'm @captainriphunter. Again, this is dedicated to my friend Hira, who I know kicked ass in her exams this week and I'm v proud of her for getting through them.
> 
> also, I'd put Thomas' inscription in such a gorgeous font on my word doc and I'm gutted I couldn't use the font on here. but believe me. it was beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> a note on flintsilver: it is meant as platonic in this fic although I do personally ship them romantically too, and Silver is important to this story only because after seeing Flint's darkness, after descending into it, after hearing the story - how could he not care? and then Thomas Hamilton is alive and Flint looks like he has hope for the first time ever, so of course John is over the moon for him, of course he's going to help save Thomas or fight tooth and claw to make sure Flint gets his peace. Thomas was not in this chapter much as it was mostly set up, but naturally will be more prominent later. please comment!


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